The man was blocky, his grizzled hair a stiff shock above a craggy face. He wore the uniform of an S.P. colonel, with the triple bars that only a charter member of the Space Patrol could wear. His eyes were unfriendly as he stared at the unshaven, younger man before him, but deep in their gray depths was a terrified panic that he could not completely conceal. "Snap out of it, Kenton," he barked. Val Kenton swayed drunkenly to his feet, saluted insolently. "Captain Val Kenton, of the Cruiser Pegasus, reporting for duty, sir," he said blurrily, mockingly, "Day's orders, sir?" He stared about the cell, hate growing in his eyes, the jut of his chin becoming even more stubborn. His hand fumbled for a cigarette, and he lit it with a glow-lighter, as his gaze grew speculative. "Well?" he prompted nastily. "Look, Val," the colonel sat on the bunk edge. "I need your help." Val Kenton laughed, and there was a deep hate and bitterness in the tones that brought the blood rushing to the patrolman's features. "You go to hell, you damned, snobbish, slave-driver," Val Kenton snapped coldly, "you got me cashiered out of the Patrol; now I wouldn't like anything better than to push a disruptor into your belt and press the firing stud!" The blocky patrolman's knuckles were white, the muscles ridged and taut, but he kept his voice even and unruffled. "I'm not asking for myself," he said grimly, "this is for Elise." "Elise? What have I got to do with her any more?" "She's marooned somewhere on Venus--may be dead on one of the islands." The colonel's voice broke despite his iron control. "For God's sake, Val," he finished desperately, "you've got to find her and bring her back!" But Val Kenton was not listening. His mind was far away, drawing back the memories of long languorous nights beneath a tropical moon, remembering the soft shush-shush of waves lapping at the shore, of the whisper of the trade winds through tree fronds. He was recalling the lithe grace of Elise's slender body as they whirled to the muted strains of a hidden orchestra. He was conjuring back again the perfume of her hair and the softness of her voice as she whispered to him of her love and her plans. And then he was back in the present, feeling the solid grip upon his shoulders, seeing the fear reflected in Matthew Barber's eyes. He felt the first twinge of fear himself, and his face hardened and grew stiff. "Elise on Venus?" he asked, "what the devil is she doing there?" "She went with Tony Andrews. He was finishing the job you started, and she stowed away in his ship. When I found the note she left, it was too late to do anything." The blur of hate in Val Kenton's mind then was a savage thing that seemed to drain all strength from his body. He whirled, faced the gray stone wall, afraid the other would see the murder-lust that lay so near the surface of his eyes. "To hell with Tony," he grated between set jaws, "he was the one who squealed on me!"